


A History of Dust

by pantheon_of_discord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Freeform, I saw this photo and it was telling me a story, M/M, Prompt Art, Slightly - Freeform, and I made it christmas because my grinch heart was warmed this year, i had to write it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 02:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13137444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantheon_of_discord/pseuds/pantheon_of_discord
Summary: Just visible through a beam of dirty sunlight, two lovers lay on a rusted metal cot, pressed together on a worn mattress and buried beneath faded and moth-eaten quilts. One of them shifted and woke, sweeping soft eyes over the other, before drifting off again.





	A History of Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ricketyjukeboxer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricketyjukeboxer/gifts).



> My girl.

 

There was an old farmhouse that stood crumbling on the outskirts of Pomeroy, Washington.

The house, made of grey and weather-worn wood, was little more than a speck against the thick blanket of snow, glowing white and blinding in the glare of early morning light. You wouldn’t know the house was occupied, save for the thin wisps of wood smoke that drifted from the chimney, and the long black car out front, half-buried in snow.

Inside, the sun streamed through windows warped by time, falling on dusty floors and the detritus of nearly a century.

Just visible through a beam of dirty sunlight, two lovers lay on a rusted metal cot, pressed together on a worn mattress and buried beneath faded and moth-eaten quilts. One of them shifted and woke, sweeping soft eyes over the other, before drifting off again.

 

//

 

The house itself was nothing special; it didn’t have a quirky name or a scandalous history. Chuck Anderson bought the land in 1928, and that summer he and his two eldest sons built the house from the ground up. Cold winter wind whistled through tiny gaps around the front windows, and in its construction the foundation had shifted a little, causing a slight _lean_ to the whole building (but you only noticed it if you happened to drop an apple to the kitchen floor).

The Andersons owned the farm until 1956, when they sold it to Jim and Bess Conkey, newlyweds looking for a quiet life in the country. The house saw the births of three children: Winnie, Helen, and Joey.

In 1966, for her eighth birthday, Winnie received a Mattel-O-Phone, just like the one Mama had on the table in the hallway. It came with its own set of records that slipped into a slot in the side, and when she lifted the receiver to her ear, Winnie could hear a soft, staticky voice tell stories about Charlie Brown or Sleeping Beauty or Hansel and Gretel. She played with the phone nearly every day, planting herself on the floor in the hall beside Mama – always making her calls for the church. Even after the voices on the records became garbled and the player started skipping every few seconds, Winnie kept playing. Sometimes she’d pretend to call Mama, or her brother or sister, and discuss the _important business_ of the day.

After several long years, the cord on the well-loved phone frayed and broke. Winnie was afraid that her father would throw it away, so she hid it in her bedroom closet, only pulling it out every now and then.

Winnie moved out in 1979, when she married Steve Hollins from Spokane. Helen left for school in California, and Jim and Bess moved into a small apartment in town. Joey tended the farm, but he sold it to Maria Juarez after Jim passed from lung cancer in 1981. The Mattel-O-Phone stayed hidden on the top shelf of Winnie’s old closet.

The Conkeys were the last family to truly live in the house; Maria kept the property, intending to rent it out. She put some work into maintaining it for the first few years, but by the end of the 1980s it had become just another abandoned farmhouse dotting the Washington countryside.

A pack of teenagers stumbled across it one night in 1992, and for a while it became their favourite hangout. Carla Thomas would bring her old boombox, and Nick Pasternak (with his passable ID) would bring a few six-packs of beer. The sounds of R.E.M. and Nirvana and Queen would drift out into the night, muffled through the old wooden planks of the walls.

That summer of joy and youthful wonder ended abruptly when Nick’s father came looking late one night. The children were forced to abandon their hideaway, leaving nothing to show for their misadventures but a few cassette tapes, an old sweater, and a handful of crushed beer cans.

Maria Juarez passed away in 2000, and the deed passed to her brother. Hector moved up from San Francisco and decided to make a go of the now-ramshackle house. It would have been easier to hire contractors and carpenters and electricians, but Hector always liked to work with his hands. He started on the floors, prying up and replacing the old boards. The plumbing was a bit of a mess and it took him most of August to sort out. But it was good, honest work.

As the weather got colder, the wind started whistling through the cracks around the windows again. Rather than attempt to replace them all before autumn really set in, Hector resolved to simply cover them, and live with the eyesore until spring. He made his way to the hardware store in town – where he had become a regular customer – and purchased sheets of plywood, carting them back in his little coupe, a few sheets at a time.

It was on the last trip, while pushing his cart of plywood across the parking lot, that Hector suddenly slumped. He stumbled to the ground, his vision blurring. A passerby ran up to help and, recognizing the signs of a stroke, Hector tried to ask for an ambulance. His tongue couldn’t seem to work, but the ambulance still came. He died in the hospital two days later, and the bank took possession of the house.

In December 2017, a nest of vampires was making their way across the country, hitting small homes and farmhouses and leaving a bloody mess in their wake. Just a few days before Christmas, the nest spent a day in the house, hiding from the glaring light of the sun before moving on.

The next evening, two men arrived at the again empty house – long, wide blades in each of their hands. It was late, and snow had been falling for hours. The trail was cold (in more ways than one), so Dean Winchester unilaterally decided he wasn’t moving _another damn inch_ until morning. Castiel huffed and scowled, but set about making a fire in the old woodstove.

Hector had never gotten around to boarding up the windows, so as night fell the temperature dropped – and the atmosphere inside the house with it. Chilly conversation turned to shouts, then bitter silence, then confessions that shook the sagging roof.

The ice began to melt, Christmas morning dawned, and Dean and Castiel made love for the first time. The farmhouse filled with creaking springs and small, desperate noises; devotion whispered against fevered skin.

After, they grew close beneath the blankets, wrapped up in one another and heedless of the chill from the drafty windows.

They were gone by ten on Christmas morning – more work to do – and the old house fell silent again.

**Author's Note:**

> All the cool kids come to [my tumblr](pantheonofdiscord.tumblr.com).


End file.
